“Yes, Jonah. Apparently they know each other from—”
Suddenly, Clara is pacing, and she waves away the rest of my sentence, as if she either knows where I’m going with this or doesn’t care.
“So you’re that couple.”
She says the phrasethat couplewith overt annoyance.
“What do you mean,that couple?”
“That couple that arranged a special visit to the turtle sanctuary run by Jonah.” She looks at me through narrowed eyes.
There’s a story here, but not sure that I wanna know more about it, I ask hesitantly, “Do you know Jonah?”
Her gaze flickers in the direction of the computer, which makes me think that the email she was composing when I walked in was to Jonah, as well as the muttered curse, take that, you dastard.
“Oh, yes. I know Jonah. I am very familiar with his work.”
All of this is said with a sort of deadly foreboding. Clearly there is a history here.
I clear my throat. “I just want to go home.”
I’m not sure whether my words registered, but she marches over to her desk and sits down, a determined look on her face. She picks up the phone and dials a number.
As soon as someone answers, she barks, “I need a tray brought to the office immediately. I need chocolate. I need cookies. And tea.” She glances at me, then adds, “Make that wine. No. The good stuff.”
Then she hangs up and places another call. This one takes longer for the person on the other end to pick up. By the time the person answers—and I’m guessing it’s Jonah—she’s pacing again.
“Jonah, this is an all new low for you. You can’t just kidnap my guests. You need to bring that man back right now.”
“I don’t think he was kidnapped.”
She doesn’t seem to hear me, but hangs up the phone and immediately dials again. “You’ve gone too far this time. Jonah Landrine, you pick up the phone right now or I swear I’m going to come over that pathetic little island of yours and drag that man back here myself.”
She hangs up again and is already punching in the number again when I snatch the phone out of her hand.
“He wasn’t kidnapped,” I say before she can protest. “Jonah isn’t the one to blame.”
“Jonah is always the one to blame,” she says darkly.
“Not this time.” And, honestly, I can’t imagine what that silent, gentle giant of a man could have possibly done to enrage Clara this much. But I am sure that whatever their history, Jonah isn’t to blame for the debacle I’ve found myself in. “Look, he and Nick know each other from BUD/S. And I guess Nick called in a favor so that we could tour the turtle research station yesterday. That’s all.”
She eyes me suspiciously. “Then why did he come and pick up Nick this morning? And why are you leaving now? What happened on Libélula Caye that got you both so freaked out that you’re leaving paradise mid-vacation?”
“Nothing! The turtles were great. The island was beautiful and picturesque. It was perfect.”
“Are you sure both of you came back from the island? Jonah didn’t murder you?”
“Me?”
“Well, one of you. Nick. Whatever? He didn’t murder Nick, and you fought your way free, and now you’re fleeing for your life?”
“No.”
“He’s not holding Nick hostage and sent you back to the U.S. As a drug courier to earn his freedom?”
“No. Nothing ominous happened. Nothing true crime based. No murder. No drug trafficking. Nothing.”
“Then why did Nick leave?”
